


Burn

by dream_girl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Strong Language, lost summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22568524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dream_girl/pseuds/dream_girl
Summary: Sirius and Cait are stuck at #12 Grimmauld Place, and Cait's had enough.
Relationships: Sirius Black & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	Burn

_ July  _

Cait inhaled sharply as she looked around the foyer of the old house. Sirius glanced over his shoulder. “Lovely, isn’t it?” he snarled, sarcasm dripping from his voice. He had been dreading coming back here ever since he had impulsively offered it to Dumbledore as headquarters. 

“Mmmmmm,” Cait hummed vaguely. She had the unpleasant feeling that she’d been there before. She hadn’t, not awake anyway. But it was disturbingly familiar regardless. She already knew the turn of the staircase and the weight of the door handles. And the house elf heads mounted on the wall, she’d seen those before too. Even the smell of the house, hidden below layers of mildew and dust and age, was familiar.

_ September _

The kids had been gone for a fortnight and the house was eerily quiet. She didn’t like it. The old house was creepy enough on its own with its heavy furniture and musty smell and layers of dirt and dust. The layers of not-quite dark magic that she could sense made it worse, almost like the house was fighting it. Sometimes is was a low thrumming, an undertone, other times a keening so intense she thought her head might explode with it. The kids had brought life and light, drowning out the unhappy hum of the house. 

She’d tucked the sense that she’d been there before away in her mind that first day and tried desperately to ignore it, but it surfaced in the silence. She knew exactly where they were the moment they stepped through the front door, and no one had told her where they were going. She knew the heavy furniture and outdated wallpaper, the door down to the kitchen and the stair up to the sitting room, the gas fixtures and the awful row of house elf heads on the wall. She’d walked these hallways with him, over and over again, in his dreams.

Alone for a moment, she followed the pull of her mind, or of the house. She wasn’t really sure which. Padding softly down the stairs, she permitted her instinct to pull her past each floor, lower and lower into the bowels of the house. There was a cellar below the kitchen. Sirius didn’t like it when people went down there so they’d kept the door closed and hadn’t told the kids about it. No one had gone down, at least not that she knew about. 

Thankfully the kitchen was empty. She didn’t want to be waylaid, or have to explain herself. The unassuming door was past the pantry. She could smell the musty dankness wafting up from behind it. The ominous feeling threatened to overtake her, to force her back, as she reached for the key. Ignoring the dread and Sirius’ warning to stay out of there, she turned the old key and pulled the door open, tiptoeing down the narrow set of wooden stairs, wand lit. Miraculously nothing creaked to reveal her indiscretion. 

Standing still at the bottom, she allowed her eyes to adjust to the pitch dark. Her wand cast enough light to see the small stone room and the hallway that led away from it and the stairs. She crept along the hallway, trailing her fingers along the damp stone wall. She was afraid to touch it too hard, that her hand would sink and she would be stuck, or that the house would drag her in. 

What waited at the end of the hall was equally horrifying and expected. She took it all in for a moment, processing the reality of what was in front of her. The stone cell was just as she remembered it: narrow, about the size of closet, with black metal bars the shape of snakes in place of a door. There was a single torch bracket in the hallway, placed conveniently for the jailers, but otherwise there was no light or air to the cell. She knew that the torch was extinguished unless Walburga or Orion were present. There was a hole in the ground for a toilet on one side and some balled up, decaying rags that might have once been a blanket in the corner. 

The realization slowly washed over her, icy and mean. This was how he survived Azkaban. He’d had  _ practice _ . She knew this, she’d seen it before. But she thought it was his mind designing a metaphor for the suffering. She didn’t believe it was  _ real _ . 

But here it was. It was  _ real _ . They had  _ kept  _ him here, like an animal. The terror a small child must’ve felt sitting in the pitch blackness, hearing the key scrape in the lock and knowing no one could hear him crying or screaming, and those that might didn’t care, pushed her over the edge. The emotion she had bottled from being in the house, knowing how much he hated it and the understanding of exactly why, welled up in her and she couldn’t stop it, couldn’t keep it in any longer. All at once her knees hit the stone floor and she was half-screaming, body wracked with sobs. How  _ could  _ they? How could anyone do that to a  _ child _ ? They were  _ monsters _ .

Vaguely she was aware of quick footsteps coming towards her. “Cait?” Arthur. “What’s happened?” She felt him slide his hands under her arms and pull her up off the floor. “What is this place?” he asked as he looked around, bewildered.

She was sobbing so violently she couldn’t speak. She wanted to scream it until her voice was gone so everyone knew what those monsters had done to their own children, but she could barely breathe through her fury. From two floors up, the familiar shrieks of “Mudbloods! Blood traitors! Filth! Desecrating the house of my fathers!” filtered down.

“That  _ bitch _ !” Cait wrenched herself out of Arthur’s hands and tore back up the cellar stairs two at a time. She burst back through the kitchen and up the stairs to the foyer where Walburga’s portrait was shrieking profanities at Tonks, who was struggling to close the curtains. “No!” Cait yelled as she pushed Tonks away.

“You bitch!” she screamed back at the portrait, wand pointed at directly at it. “What kind of vile excuse for a human being are you? Who does that to their own children?” The rest of the portraits jeered at this. Again, she was vaguely aware of footsteps, of others joining them. She was too focused in her fury and disbelief to care who it was.

Momentarily shocked at being screamed back at, the portrait went silent. The painted image of Walburga Black looked down her nose at Cait, examining her as if she was looking at something disgusting. “So you found it finally, did you?” she sneered.

“What the fuck?” That was Sirius. His voice was distant, as if he was in another room.

“I found her in the cellar,” Arthur explained, panting. 

Sirius eyes widened in surprise. “Love…” he started.

“Who does that?” Cait seethed at the portrait, cutting him off. “Why would you ever--”

“Children need to be disciplined properly,” Walburga answered coldly, the other portraits muttering their agreement.. “There’s nothing like a bit of solitary confinement-”

“That’s enough!” Sirius stepped forward, reaching for the curtains.

“No!” Cait grabbed his arm with surprising force and pushed him back. He could see her now, heaving chest and tear-streaked face. “How could you, you sick bitch! They were children! They were  _ your  _ children!” She was screaming again, bits of spittle flying from her mouth. 

“Children require a firm hand,” the portrait shot back coldly. “We weren’t firm enough, as you can see by this disgraceful mess, this  _ abomination _ , that claims to be my son. He’s an embarrassment to the House of Black, a stain on it’s proud history…”

Cait’s rage broke over again and she couldn’t hear her anymore. “Shut up, you horrifying excuse of a mother, of a  _ human _ . How dare you!” Her own voice was distant now. She could feel Sirius trying to pull her away at the same time as she could feel the magic welling inside her, the separate pool that dreamers absorbed. It had only grown since she’d been in the house, absorbing the magic Molly cast to cook and clean, the practice spells visitors cast, and the residue left in the house itself. She could feel the wands of the others being drawn and pointed in her direction, but her eyes only saw the horrible portrait in front of her, mouth still moving with vile words, but she couldn’t hear it.

“You fucking  _ cunt _ . Shut. Up.” Her hair had begun to streak violently with so much white she was nearly platinum, and move of its own accord, as if it were being buffeted by a breeze. The portrait’s mouth was still moving. Someone pulled Sirius away, saying “Stand back, mate.” 

“SHUT. UP.” But the portrait didn’t stop. Cait didn’t know what she was saying, just that she’d had _enough_ of this foul thing on the wall. Her ears were ringing and she was still sobbing, and the magic threatened, like the terror earlier, to overwhelm and sweep her away. 

“Don’t burn the house down, Cait,” a voice called. Tonks. She’d forgotten Tonks was there, that her friend was the most recent target of the portrait’s vile tirade. The magic tingled at her fingertips. 

“...his life is a complete waste, a betrayal of everything my family stands for, the shame of my flesh…” Walburga’s tirade drifted back into Cait’s ears, wiping away the last bit of control she had.  _ Burn _ , she thought. The raw magic ripped out from the tip of her wand directly at the portrait, taking every bit of seething hate Cait could direct at it. Her hand shook as she struggled to control it.  _ Burn. _ The magic did her bidding, focusing only on the portrait, and it began to smoke around the edges. 

The woman in the portrait laughed maniacally, laughed because this little blood traitor sobbing like a child wasn’t capable of harming the portrait she had so carefully charmed. The laughter cut through the ringing in Cait’s ears, bringing an icy calm to her fury.

_ Burn _ , she thought again. As the portrait began to shrink slowly from the outside in, the painted eyes widened in surprise. The painted image began to scream in panic, increasing Cait’s rage.  _ She wants sympathy after what she did to her own children? _ Cait thought incredulously, tightening her grip on her wand, which was growing hot in her hand. She let the magic coarse through her, watching the portrait smolder and shrink from the edges inward, watching Walburga’s body shrink with it, clawing wildly at the edges of the canvas as if she could stop it, shrinking until all that was left was her incredulous face as Cait forced the last bit of magic at it, obliterating the last vestiges of the evil hag from existence. 

Silence filled the foyer. The magic had obeyed her will, had only burned the portrait. All that was left was a streak of black soot up the wall where the portrait had been just minutes ago, and slightly smoldering curtains. The acrid smell of burning oil paint and canvas filled her nostrils. Cait was aware of her own breathing, panting from the effort of controlling the release of that much magic and the heart-wrenching discovery that preceded it, sweat and tears mixing on her face. She swayed slightly and dropped to her knees before collapsing face down, gulping down air, eyes closed. She rested her forehead on the mildewed carpet, trembling. The tears flowed quietly now, her energy completely sapped. 

“Everyone out,” Sirius barked. The sound of footsteps faded quickly away as everyone retreated, leaving them alone. He sat down next to her on the floor and pulled her up, cradling her gently against his chest. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m s-sorry I went into the cellar.”

“Shhhhh, it’s alright.”

“I kn-knew, but I didn’t think it was real.” Her voice quivered with emotion. “I didn’t think she really did that to you. How could she? She’s supposed to love you, protect you. How could she lock you up down there in the dark?” She was wavering again, unable to control the emotion.

“Shhhhh, I know.” He held her there for a long time, arms wrapped tight around her, tears flowing down his face. The display of fury on his behalf, directed at the person he hated most, that she knew what no one else-not even James- knew, opened up a well of emotion within him.  _ That  _ was how a mother should behave, how  _ his  _ mother should have behaved. A real mother would have never allowed his father to start locking them down there, wouldn’t have done it herself.

And she wasn’t revolted by him. She wasn’t looking at him as if it was his fault, that he deserved to be locked down there, the way his mother did. There was revulsion and fury--he’d never seen her that angry--but not at him. He’d never experienced that kind of love. Euphemia Potter had probably loved him that way, or close, but his angry, wounded sixteen year old self couldn’t recognize it at the time. This certainty that he was loved, that this small woman was trembling from exhaustion in his arms because she loved him unconditionally, elated and terrified him.

“How did you know?”

“I saw it, when you were falling apart in Azkaban the first time.” He looked at her in surprise. She’d never shared this. “The first time I had to intervene in your dreams I f-found you there, in that cell. She was there too, guarding it. Taunting you while you were curled up in the corner rocking back and forth, holding those dirty rags over your head and crying.” Cait was sobbing again. “You were flitting between a really small boy and a man, b-begging for her forgiveness and pleading with her not to extinguish the light. I had to duel with her to drive her back where she belonged in your subconscious. But I thought the cell was just your subconscious creating some sort of metaphor as a substitute, or mixing your cell in Azkaban, not that it was actually real, here, in this shithole house.”

“I could feel it when we arrived,” she continued. “I knew I’d been here before. Not really, of course, only in your worst dreams. But it was all familiar, the kitchen and Kreacher and the tapestry. All of it. I’ve been trying to ignore it, but it’s like the house is keening. Like it wanted me to find it. It’s so loud now that the kids are gone…” Another heaving sob cut her off. 

“Love, please. It’s alright,” he crooned as he stroked her hair. “It’s alright, Callaghan.” There were so many nights he’d done the same for Regulus, cradled him and soothed his cries after he’d been released from the cellar for some minor infraction typical of a small boy. It didn’t take much for their mother to lock them away for hours or, in her worst moods, days. Days locked in the dark with nothing to eat or drink. Occasionally Kreacher would appear at the bars offering some snide remark, then slink back into the darkness.

They both jumped at the gentle knock on the door to the kitchen. Molly Weasley pushed it open, a tray hovering in front of her. “I thought you could use a cup of tea,” she offered quietly. “Arthrur took the liberty of adding a bit of brandy.”

“Th-thank you, Molly,” Cait stammered, reaching gratefully for one of the two large mugs. Molly handed the second to Sirius and disappeared back downstairs. They leaned back against the wall opposite the scorch mark, sipping their tea and gazing blankly at the wall.

“I suppose we could get rid of the curtains,” Cait offered after awhile. The brandy--Arthur had a blessedly heavy hand--had steadied her. Now she was just bloody exhausted. 

“Mmmmm,” he agreed, waving his wand and silently vanishing them. He looked at her with a sly grin. “Maybe the house didn’t want you to find that cell. Maybe it really just wants to be redecorated.” Cait nearly spit her tea across the foyer as they both dissolved into laughter. 

**Author's Note:**

> The ending feels unresolved to me, but I've been sitting on this for months and that's where it wants to be. Cait's abilities are explained in Lost Summer, if you're interested. Thanks for reading!


End file.
